


smoking sawdust cigarettes in the middle of the night

by shipwrecks



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Power Dynamics, Smoking, Stream of Consciousness, mature for language and slight mention of dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Jamie had been patient (most of) the whole evening. Doing exactly as Malcolm told, reporting back swiftly so he could plan his next move before anyone else could even figure out <i>they</i> should be planning. It was extremely helpful.</p><p>So he'd earned this, actin' like a good boy 'nd all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smoking sawdust cigarettes in the middle of the night

**Author's Note:**

> LOL WHO AM I. this was completely written right now, as opposed to my last foray into ttoi fic, so i have no excuses. w/e. based on [this fuckin gorgeous fanart of malcolm lighting a cigarette for jamie](http://godsgrief.tumblr.com/post/34942482858/yada-yada-something-about-malcolm-witholding) by tumblr user godsgrief with the added bonus of: "yada yada something about malcolm witholding cigarettes from jamie on their busier nights and using them as rewards for good behavior yada" which KILL ME. this fucked up dynamic is my everything.
> 
> title shamelessly stolen from e.e. cummings.

He kept them in his desk, in the drawer with the lock, next to the Glenlivet and a photo of the two of them from god knows how long ago at the newspaper back in Glasgow that he can’t seem to bring himself to get rid of, but also then has to make sure nobody ever sees. Can’t possibly let anyone know he’s ever had a life outside Number 10.

But that’s not what he’s after right now. He sees the photo when he opens the drawer and almost looks fond, if his face could make that shape anymore, but grabs the cigarettes.

He'd been itching for them, Jamie had, but Malcolm wouldn't let him chain smoke between bollocking ministers because it somehow put him on even more of an edge than not getting them. And while Jamie was a mouthy fucker when he was nicotine-amped, he was erratic, unfocused, and liable to turn on Malcolm at any moment, which was not what Malcolm had in mind for this all nighter. 

But Jamie had been patient (most of) the whole evening. Doing exactly as Malcolm told, reporting back swiftly so he could plan his next move before anyone else could even figure out _they_ should be planning. It was extremely helpful.

So he'd earned this, actin' like a good boy 'nd all that. Still. Malcolm'd made him wait for it, through a particularly grueling meeting, full of droning economic consultants and smoke breaks that were useless to Jamie. He passed him notes as someone (probably Julius) asked a question that only prolonged the meeting, one after another, as Malcolm ignored the first, and he was getting especially restless. Malcolm finally responded, quickly scrawled something back, and returned to feigning interest in the presenter's answer.

After it was over, he told Jamie to go out to the balcony off the side of his office and he's not sure he's ever seen him bolt so fast. He trails behind and actually goes into his office, to his desk, in order to get what he needs.

Then he meets him out on the balcony, Jamie’s practically bouncing and his eyes widen with delight when he sees what’s in Malcolm’s hand.

Malcolm _tsks_ and narrows his eyes, them ordering Jamie calm and he finally stops fidgeting. When he takes a fag out of the pack, a strong smell immediately disturbing the stale air, his body actually slumps as his muscles, tensed, loosen. Now, it’s easy for Malcolm to get close to him, put the fag in his mouth, and even light it for him.

There’s no wind so he doesn’t have to curl a hand around the flame to keep it from going out. Can just flick open his lighter (an old gift from a former PM for a job particularly well done) and spark it; the minute it touches the fag, Jamie inhales deep. A long puff of smoke curls out of his mouth when he exhales, taking his time, his eyes closing. He focuses intensely on this moment, tries to remove anything unnecessary from the memory it will become, which is everything except the cigarette and Malcolm, staring at him intently.

Malcolm notices his hands on his hips, though his fingers still jitter, as if the fag hasn’t quite taken its full effect yet. He’s not wearing his suit jacket anymore and what was once a crisp white shirt is now untucked and crinkled, one of the sleeves rolled and pushed up to his elbow, the other loose. The cuff is too big for his wrist, which Malcolm only just realized is quite delicate.

He sees his face both illuminated and cast in shadows because he hasn’t flipped the top of the lighter closed and put out the flame. Every so often Jamie brings a hand to pluck the fag out of his mouth and exhale, every other drag or so because he doesn’t actually need to, can do the whole bit with it still in his mouth. He’s just recalling a particularly satisfying shout from earlier this evening and using his hands, which is only aided by smoke wrapping insidiously around him as he waves the fag around.

His hands are calloused and he has dirt under some of his fingernails, Malcolm notices with a slight revulsion; his fingers are not as long as his own nor are they as worn, but he does eye a new scrape on knuckles on the right hand. Classic Jamie. Punching a brick wall in times of stress. It’s raw, with dried blood, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t need stitches.

Jamie serendipitously reaches the end of his story and his cigarette at the same time, and he falls silent, only looks at Malcolm expectantly, or rather, hopefully.

Malcolm tugs another fag out from the pack with his mouth, closed around the filter. Jamie now watches _him_ light it and take the first drag, the smoke burning his lungs and his breath wants to catch and cough ragged, but he won’t let it betray him. He doesn’t smoke a lot, only when he’s so on edge he runs the risk of cutting himself with the knife, and he’s not really smoking right now. He almost immediately passes the fag to Jamie, who takes it appreciatively, his, Malcolm’s, thumb on the underside of it out of an old habit of passing joints between himself and two guys he can’t remember between classes at college.

(For the record, Jamie had never smoked pot before he met Malcolm. It was Malcolm who got him high for the first time, deftly rolling a spliff in their too-small flat and them smoking it in silence, Jamie so stoned he forgot how to talk, Malcolm always having been comfortable with just not saying anything around him sometimes. The room was hazy and Jamie couldn’t stop his foot twitching even though it was tucked under his other leg, his toes brushing against Malcolm’s knee.)

The second one has the effect he was going for and the little shakes, only noticeable to Malcolm (to anyone else, he’d seem zen—or, as fuckin' zen as Jamie ever could seem), subside. Malcolm tells him there’s still work to be done yet, it’s far from over. He’s just got a text from Sam saying there’s a fresh pot of coffee in his office; she understands not to disturb them when they’re on the balcony on nights like this. Malcolm’s mouth crooks into something that would not be considered a smile on anyone else, appreciating Sam for all the silent work she does for him.

Jamie sighs in resignation, but stubs out the butt of the cigarette, now only fooling him into thinking it’s still got tobacco. He slaps Malcolm on the back, “off we go then, yeah?” as a way of treading them onward, back into the shite.

 

Two hours later, they’re still at work, still trying to get everyone in line, and he brings Jamie back onto the balcony for another fag, having earned it by taking care of a potentially legendary DoSAC cock-up before it ever saw the light of day. And if Malcolm’s on his knees, mouth full of Jamie’s cock as he curls his fingers into Malcolm’s salt and pepper hair (greying more with every night like this), the cigarette mostly burning itself out because Jamie’s breath is hitched and still, well. That’s just for dealing with all the things Malcolm doesn’t have the energy to. It doesn’t mean anything.

**Author's Note:**

> for those who are curious, i wrote this on my phone which has the ability for me to draw and type (wow technology!!!) so here's what jamie's notes to malcolm look like according to me because im trash enough to think about this extensively:
> 
> [first](http://postimg.org/image/97uhccy2x/full/) and [second](http://postimg.org/image/ou4u3w1gb/)


End file.
